GREENWICH NASTY TIME

by Carl Frederick

Illustration by Mark Evans

As somebody once said, “If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn’t be research.”

Leaning over the railing of the Red Osprey with Vicki at his side, Paul could make out not much more than the roiling of the sea. Midday, yet the mist lay heavy. The ferry had barely passed from the Southampton Water into the Solent, but still the English mainland appeared only as shadows. Their destination, the Isle of Wight just a few miles away, could not be seen at all.

“Timeless,” said Vicki softly.

Paul chuckled. “If it’s this bad at Shanklin, the navigation event will be a real challenge. We’ll hardly be able to see our own bikes, much less the markers.” He checked his watch—5:30 PM—and switched it to twenty-four-hour time in preparation for the event. “Map, compass, and odometer in the dark. Now that would be fun.”

His cell phone rang, startling them both. Paul pulled the phone from his jeans pocket. “My thesis advisor,” he said, gazing at the outside display. He flipped open the phone and, so Vicki wouldn’t feel left out, switched on the speaker.

“Hi, Dr. Richardson.”

“Paul. I think I have something of an idea.”

Paul rolled his eyes. His advisor seemed to start every conversation the same way—almost as if “I think I have something of an idea” meant hello. “About the project?” said Paul to fill the void.

“We know the EPR waves are a surface phenomenon—solid surface.” Richardson spoke with both his usual enthusiasm and his characteristic Boston accent. “They won’t propagate through liquids. I’m sure the waves would be amplified if surrounded by water.” Paul heard the sound of a hand slapping a desk. “If I were back at Harvard, I’d just bundle the experiment into my sailboat and run it from the middle of the Charles. The wave amplification is what we’ve overlooked.”

“We wouldn’t want it too amplified,” said Paul. “If you’re right about the theory, it could be dangerous.”

“Of course I’m right. You do have the capsule with you, yes?”

“What?” said Paul, momentarily disoriented by the seeming non sequitur. “Yes. I take it everywhere with me.”

“Good. By the way, where exactly are you?”

Paul smiled at Vicki. “Vicki and I are on our way to the Wight Wabbit Mountain Bike Festival—on the Isle of Wight.”

“Vicki?”

“She’s not a physics student.”

“Oh,” said Richardson. “Dating civilians, are you?” he added with a smile in his voice.

“And a native,” said Paul lightly. “She was born in Southampton. She studies Brit Lit.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves—but keep the capsule close. Might need it soon. Maybe even tonight.” Paul heard a click as Richardson broke the connection.

Paul blew out a breath and returned the phone to his pocket.

“Is he always so abrupt?” said Vicki.

Paul nodded. “Always.”

“And civilian?”

Paul laughed. “Non-physicist.” An outline in the mist caught his attention. “Hey! Land ho!”

“Cowes, I think—our destination.” Vicki paused. “By the way, what was all that about a capsule?”

“I haven’t told you anything about my work, have I?”

Vicki smiled. “Are you allowed to tell civilians?”

“I am, but … but only if they’re unlikely to understand it.” He nodded over to a stairwell. “Come on. Let’s go down to the entrance level. I’ll explain it as we go.” He hefted his pack to his shoulders. “Have you heard of the multiworld theory of quantum mechanics?”

“You mean that the Universe splits into multiple universes sometimes?” Vicki hoisted her knapsack as well.

“Yeah. Whenever there’s a quantum event.” Paul was impressed. “You may not be the civilian I thought you were. Well,” he went on, “my advisor is the creator of the micromultiworld theory.”

“That theory,” said Vicki, “I haven’t heard of.”

“Not many have.” Paul led the way to the stairs. “Richardson says it’s too much to ask that the entire vast Universe split at every quantum event. He believes that only the region directly surrounding the event splits.”

“Which means?”

“He believes that a similar region from a parallel universe is switched in—a corresponding region of space, but not necessarily the same time. He believes the vacuum fluctuations are really just these little regions being swapped in and out.”

“I don’t know what vacuum fluctuations are,” said Vicki. “But you keep saying ‘he believes it.’ Do you?”

“Me?” Paul bit his lip, pausing on the stairs before answering. “I don’t know—but the work should get me a Ph.D.—which is why I followed him when he came here on sabbatical.”

A few minutes later, the Red Osprey slid into its berth. Paul and Vicki collected their bicycles and wheeled them into the Cowes terminal.

“Your advisor mentioned an experiment,” said Vicki as they went.

“The idea is to force a measurable region to swap in from another universe.”

“But you said it was dangerous.”

“Well, it’s possible that we could really mess up space and time.”

Vicki stopped, cold. “You’re not serious?”

Paul laughed. “No, I’m not. Even if the experiment is wildly successful, a small region around Richardson would swap with a region from a different time—but only for an instant.”

“Well, that sounds sort of dangerous.”

“But unlikely,” said Paul. “Very, very unlikely.”

Vicki gave him a long look. “You’re not just saying this to make me not worry, are you?” She glanced at his pack. “This capsule you always have with you. What is it? And is that dangerous?”

“It’s perfectly safe. It’s an EPR experiment, but with a very large number of particles. I have one capsule and Dr. Richardson has the other.” Paul gesticulated with the hand not guiding his bike. “Each capsule is in a single EPR superposition. If I were to measure the capsule’s quantum state, Richardson’s capsule would collapse to a single eigenstate—and that should trigger a region swap. A short time later, the swap would reverse. And if it didn’t, then when my capsule is moved to Richardson’s location—his nexus, as we call it—the swap would be forced to reverse.” He glanced at her and saw a puzzled expression. “I’d better explain it more slowly.”

“No, don’t,” she said. “Don’t explain. I think I’ll go back to being a civilian.”

Outside the terminal, they mounted their mountain bikes for the short ride to Newport where they’d buy provisions for the weekend. Paul noted that now the air was clear. No problem with navigation here. He glanced out across the Solent, but the English mainland was still invisible in the sea mist.

Just outside a grocer’s shop in Newport, they dismounted. Just then, Paul’s phone rang. “It’s Richardson,” said Paul, looking at the Caller ID. “Why don’t you go in and get what we need? I’ll stay out here and watch the bikes—and deal with Richardson.” He flipped open the phone and again for Vicki’s sake activated the speaker.

“I think I’ve had something of an idea,” came Richardson’s voice from the phone’s speaker. Vicki cast an amused look to Paul and then walked toward the store. Paul switched off the speaker.

“Are you there?” said Richardson.

“Sorry. Yes. Go ahead.”

“I am speaking to you from,” said Richardson in a professorial voice, “from a rubber raft in the middle of the Jubilee Sports Centre swimming pool. I have the full EPR experiment with me.”

“To try your surrounded-by-water theory?”

“Precisely!”

For the next five minutes or so, Richardson described the experiment at hand and then guided Paul in the positioning of his capsule.

With the capsule on the ground and him on his knees, Paul made tiny changes in the capsule’s orientation.

Finally, Richardson said, “Perfect. Right on center.”

Paul, his knees sore from kneeling, stood. “Okay.” He glanced at his phone’s call timer and worried about running out of free minutes. “What now?” he said, trying to keep impatience out of his voice.

“Now, just stand by. We throw this little switch and…”

Paul heard a whirring sound over the phone.

“Now, this is interesting,” said Richardson. “It looks almost as if the—”

Paul waited a few seconds for more. “Hello?” he said into the silent phone. “Dr. Richardson. Can you hear me?” He noticed that the phone display showed that the call had been lost. He pulled up the received call log and dialed. But the call didn’t go through. Again, he tried, but with the same result. Paul keyed the physics department number, just to see if his phone was working. He couldn’t connect to the physics office, either. He stood there with the phone in his hand for a minute or so, then tried Richardson again. No answer. He blew out a breath, snapped his phone closed, chained both bikes together, and, carrying both packs, walked slowly into the grocery.

He found Vicki hauling a basket of provisions to the checkout counter. She stopped as he came in. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, probably,” he said, feeling sheepish for his worry. “It’s just that my phone dropped the call from Richardson—just as he started to run the experiment.” Paul described his attempts to reconnect. He spoke softly, even though they were the only customers in the small shop.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry.” Vicki proceeded to the cash register. “Cell phone coverage can be flaky at times. I’d imagine very much so out here on the Island.”

The man behind the checkout counter appeared to be in his mid fifties. His bearing and presence suggested that he was the owner of the establishment. As Vicki hefted her shopping basket to the counter, he looked up from a table radio.

“Oh, sorry,” said the man, turning to her and moving to tally up her order. “The BBC suddenly went silent.” He nodded to the radio. “Wight Island Radio seems just fine though.”

Paul shot Vicki a look.

“Coincidence, probably,” she said.

“I guess,” said Paul, loading the provisions into the packs. “Still, I’ve got to say I’m a little worried about it.”

“Do you mean the BBC going down?” said the man, turning toward him. “I admit it is unusual.”

“Oh.” Surprised by the proprietor responding to a comment meant for Vicki, Paul looked up from the packs and gestured toward the radio. “Does that station give news bulletins?”

“The local news comes on in just a few minutes—five minutes before the hour.”

“Mind if we wait around for it?” said Paul brightly, striving to keep his worry out of his voice.

“No. Not at all.”

Paul bought a few snack cakes. He handed one to Vicki and started to munch on the other.

“You’re a grockle,” said the proprietor. “American, by your accent. You’ve come here for the bicycle festival, I assume.”

“Grockle?”

“Tourist,” whispered Vicki.

“Yes, the festival,” said Paul absently, impatient for the news. “And I’m a graduate student at the University of Southampton.”

“Fine institution,” said the proprietor. He turned to stare out the window, thus terminating the conversation.

When the news time arrived, Paul heard an affable announcer report on local politics, sports, a road accident and the weather. Listening to the familiar, Paul felt his worry recede. But then, just before the hour, the announcer’s voice turned serious.

“We’ve just received a report from the Hampshire Constabulary, IOW Operational Command Unit. They say that responding to complaints of mainland television going off the air, they attempted to contact the mainland to ascertain the cause—but were unable to make contact. They speculate there may have been a massive power outage affecting at least the Hampshire region.”

“Oh my god,” said Paul at a whisper.

“They say,” the commentator continued, “it is puzzling that battery backup systems have not provided emergency power. Chief Superintendent Morley says that terrorism, though very improbable, has not been entirely ruled out. She goes on to say that the Island seems completely unaffected. We’ll bring you more when we have it.”

“Let’s go,” Paul whispered.

Vicki nodded and the two of them returned to their bicycles.

“It is coincidence, isn’t it?” said Vicki.

“Yeah.” Paul bit his lip. “I’m sure it is.”

Vicki looked hard at him. “I’m not convinced you are sure.”

“Well, maybe not entirely.”

Vicki’s eyes widened.

“But it’s in no way dangerous,” said Paul quickly. “Even if Richardson is one hundred percent correct, he’ll swap into another universe running only a second behind ours and then, a second later, he’ll swap back. Not in the slightest dangerous—even if it happens, which I don’t believe, not in the slightest—not for an instant. Nothing to worry about. But anyway, I’m sure it’s just a power outage. They happen. I mean, we had a small one at the university just last month.” He paused. “Still, I think we should go back.” He checked his watch. “We can just make the 6:30 boat.”

“What?” Vicki wrinkled her nose. “Because of a power outage? What would going back accomplish?”

“It would … It would satisfy my curiosity.”

“You are worrying me.” Vicki pulled out her cell phone. “I’m going to try to call my parents.” She flipped open her phone, paused, and then closed it again. “No. I won’t worry. It’s just a power outage. It’s not as if they’re unusual.”

Paul nodded.

Vicki looked longingly at her bicycle, then sighed. “Fine, then. Let’s go. Once your curiosity is satisfied, we’ll just turn around and come back. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Thanks for humoring me.” Feeling sheepish, he looked away to his bicycle and idly worked the handbrakes. “Sometimes my imagination goes out of control. And of course I’ll pay for the ferry.” As he bent to unchain the bikes, he looked up over his shoulder. “Grockle?”

“Local dialect.” Vicki grabbed her bicycle to keep it from falling. “I study the English language as well as Brit Lit, as you called it.”

“Sorry. No offense.”

Just then, Vicki’s phone rang, startling them both. Vicki pulled it open. “Hello? Daniele. I’m so glad to hear your voice.” She smiled and put her hand over the microphone and whispered to Paul. “She lives in Maison Francaise, right across from my dorm.”

In relief, Paul let out a long breath.

Vicki turned back to the phone. “I’m fine. Why?” Vicki started. “What? You’re not at the university? Paris? But I’m not on the mainland, either…. We’re going back now…. I’ll let you know.” Vicki snapped closed the phone and swung onto her bicycle. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go…. France is unaffected.”

They raced back to Cowes. Being April, the sun wouldn’t set until after eight; they had plenty of light and could make good time.

As they rode, Vicki said, “I don’t really understand what the experiment has to do with a massive power outage—especially since if Dr. Richardson was in a boat, his experiment couldn’t even have been connected to the mains.”

“This sounds crazy,” said Paul, “but being surrounded by water was to stop the EPR waves from escaping. He might have been wrong about the amount of water he needed.”

As they cycled up a hill, neither spoke. At the crest, Vicki said, “You’re saying that the whole of Britain was affected—and only because the Isle of Wight is set off from the mainland by the Solent, we’re not involved?”

Paul, coasting now down the other side, didn’t answer.

“Well,” Vicki insisted, “is that your explanation?”

“I told you it would sound crazy.”

“What would be the result of the experiment if your crazy-sounding theory were somehow true?”

“Dr. Richardson’s theory.” Paul steered his bike to be handlebar to handlebar with Vicki’s. “The experiment could result in an alternate Great Britain being swapped with ours—one displaced backward in time from the instant of the experiment.”

“A displacement? Do you mean that the Britain across the Solent now could be in an earlier point in time?”

“Crazy, huh?”

“It would be horrible, this theory of yours. Planes take off and land in the UK every second. There’d be monstrous numbers of crashes.”

“I don’t think so,” said Paul. “The swap is complex and not all at once—relative reality. The quantum changes of a crash would be large. I think crashes, for the most part, would be prevented by subswaps. A microminimultiworld model.”

“Oh.”

They rode in silence for a while—until Vicki said, “How big a displacement?”

“What?” said Paul, pulled from his thoughts. “You mean how far back could Great Britain be swapped?”

Vicki nodded. “I’d have thought the displacement of a tiny boat would be a lot bigger than something as large as England.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Paul. “But it’s the opposite. Think of the EPR waves as acting on a … a membrane covering England with the edge glued to the shoreline. There are waves at lots of discrete wavelengths that can amplify by interference. The bigger the membrane, the more wavelengths there can be, and the higher the amplitude of the waves—and because of all that, the bigger the displacement.”

“How big?”

“Don’t know. If I knew the dimensions of Britain, I might be able to do a mental back-of-the-envelope calculation.”

“It’s about two hundred fifty miles wide and five hundred miles long,” said Vicki. “We learn it in school.”

“Okay,” said Paul with a laugh. “Just to have something to do—besides pedaling—let me try to figure it out. Order of magnitude, anyway.”

“Go ahead.” Vicki gestured ahead with her nose. “It looks like about five minutes to Cowes.”

“Okay, let’s see.” Paul spoke more to himself than to Vicki. “If we take three hundred miles as a typical dimension for Britain—and if the dimension of Richardson’s rubber boat is, say, ten feet. Then … then Britain is three hundred times 5,280 over ten times bigger.” He bit his lip in thought. “About sixteen times ten to the fourth bigger.” He paused. “The time effect goes as a function of area—the square of the linear dimension. So the difference between the boat’s displacement and Britain’s would be 256 times ten to the eighth. Let’s call it two times ten to the tenth.”

“Sure, fine,” said Vicki. “Let’s call it that.”

“What?” said Paul, yanked out of his calculations. “Oh. Give me another minute or two. I’m almost done.” He glanced at Vicki. “There are about three times ten to the seventh seconds in a year.”

“How do you know that?” Vicki’s expression showed she was bemused rather than impressed.

“It’s an important number for us computer jockeys.” Paul thought a little longer. “Richardson expected his boat might be swapped back in time by a second. So, if he was right, I’d expect Britain would be swapped back in the order of a hundred years.”

“A hundred years?”

“Roughly,” said Paul. “But the probabilities are not linear. The most likely displacement points are at regions where there’s a high density of quantum decisions—when the world changes a lot over a short time. Like big historical events, maybe.”

“But a second later, the worlds would swap back. Right?”

“No. On its own, the swap would also happen after a hundred years. But, in theory, if I activated my capsule near where Dr. Richardson activated his, Britain would immediately swap back—I think.”

“This really is insane,” said Vicki.

“Yes, it is.” Paul bit his lip. “I certainly hope it is. You mustn’t tease me about this when we’re back at the university.”

“I’ll try not to.” Vicki paused and then laughed. “It’s funny that we’re actually acting on something that’s so loony.”

“Yeah.”

They dismounted at the terminal and walked their bikes inside.

“Lots of people in here,” said Paul as they entered the passenger lounge.

“But not a full boatload, I think,” said Vicki. “We shouldn’t have any trouble going home with our bicycles.”

In the lounge, they found people milling about, exchanging information and rumors. There was broad agreement that the contiguous landmass of Great Britain had gone silent and also dark. Further, one of the terminal staff had relayed news from a shortwave broadcast from Ireland.

Paul heard the story from a frenzied, middle-aged woman after it had been filtered through an indeterminate number of people. “An Aer Lingus flight bound for Heathrow had to turn back,” said the woman. “The pilot couldn’t contact the tower or even see the airport. He said that mist enshrouded all England, but there was no radio or radar activity, or runway lights. No lights of any kind.”

“Is the Southampton ferry still going to sail on schedule?” asked Vicki.

“In … “—Paul checked his watch—”in ten minutes?”

“Oh, yes.” The woman grasped her handbag with a shaking, white-knuckled hand. “They were going to cancel it, but thankfully a member of parliament returning from holiday on the island stepped in. The MP made a big fuss and they changed their minds”—She nodded toward a prosperous-looking individual reading a newspaper—”but only after the ferry pilot insisted. He said, bless him, that his schedule indicated that the ferry leaves for Southampton, and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t. But I’m afraid it’s the last one off the island.” She looked pleadingly to Paul. “Whatever happened, Cowes wasn’t affected. And … and since Southampton is so close, less than twenty miles away, Southampton might well be fine—except for the telly and radio. That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Paul in a soothing voice. “That sounds very reasonable.” He looked out the window onto the Solent. Mist still obscured the mainland. There might not even be a mainland for all Paul could see. He shivered.

Glancing from the corner of his eye, he saw that Vicki looked scared. He tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t. In truth, he was a little frightened himself.

A boarding call came from a ceiling-mounted speaker. Paul found its squawking normalcy comforting. I’m letting it get to me. It’s just a massive power outage, maybe even the result of a terrorist attack. That would be terrible, but Britain is still there. It’s ridiculous to think otherwise.

The boarding, Paul noted, was disorganized compared to when they’d come; no one asked that they stow their bicycles—which was good. They wouldn’t have to spend time retrieving them when they docked.

Right on schedule, the ferry eased out of its slip into the small harbor and into the Solent: the waterway separating the Isle of Wight from the British mainland.

Leaning over the railing once again, this time with their bikes between them, Paul and Vicki peered into the mist, a far heavier haze than when they’d come.

Listening to the rhythmic thrum of the engines and feeling it through the railing, Paul experienced a subdued exhilaration—the excitement of a movie. For him, doing theoretical physics was like being a kid at play in the world. But now, he felt what he did might have import, maybe even world import. He smiled, realizing he was pretending; he didn’t really believe it—not really.

Five minutes out of harbor, Paul, squinting, could make out the outline of the mainland. But it would be at least another forty minutes or so until they docked at Southampton—forty minutes of sailing up the wide Southampton Water—forty minutes of feeling important. But just a few minutes later, while Paul basked in his daydreams, he heard the engines go soft and felt the ferry decelerate.

Almost by reflex he looked up over his shoulder at the wheelhouse. There, he saw a few people—he couldn’t tell how many—in what seemed vigorous debate. Paul turned and, leaning his back against the railing, watched. After about a minute he pushed off from the railing. “I’m going up there.”

Vicki turned and followed his gaze. “Why? Do you think something’s wrong?”

“No. Not really. Just my curiosity,” he said, resting his bicycle against the railing. “An occupational hazard for us physicists.”

“I know.”

Paul started for the stairs. “There might be news.”

“Wait!” said Vicki, leaning her bike against Paul’s and following him. “I’m just as curious as you are.”

They ran up the stairs and darted into the wheelhouse. The MP that the woman in the lounge had pointed out was there with a man in uniform.

The MP looked away from the man, a look of disgust on his face. “The captain says”—he shot a contemptuous glance to the man—”that he won’t take us to Southampton.”

“I can’t,” said the captain, not to Paul or Vicki but to the MP. “Southampton Water is treacherous. I can hardly see the shoreline and with the radio beacons out, I don’t dare risk it.”

Paul looked out the window. The shoreline was much clearer from the height of the wheelhouse.

Vicki stared out as well. “It’s clear enough.” She pointed. “That’s the Calshot spit. It’s probably not even a half mile away.”

Paul turned to stare at her; it was clear that despite her levity, she sorely wanted to go home. She turned and their eyes locked. “You’re an American,” she said. “You have a home to go to. But my family, everyone … everyone I know lives in the UK.”

The MP regarded her coldly. “Do you have information I should know?” he said, more in the tone of a command than a question.

Vicki glanced pleadingly at Paul.

“I was on the phone with the Southampton professor I work for,” said Paul, addressing the MP, “when he threw the switch on an experiment he was conducting. Conceivably, it could have caused the power to go down, communications channels to fail, and more.”

“Much more,” whispered the MP. Paul stared at him quizzically. It was obvious he knew a lot more than he was saying.

The captain looked at Paul with undisguised incredulity—not so the MP.

“And I think,” Paul went on, “that I might be able to reverse the blackout.”

“Blackout, hell!” sputtered the MP. “The whole of bloody Britain has gone dark. No lights, radio, emergency communications systems. Nothing!”

“And just how do you intend to reverse the blackout?” said the captain, his voice filled with sarcasm.

Paul swung down his pack, rummaged through it, and brought out the capsule—a book-sized device covered with dials and controls.

“What the hell is that?” said the MP.

“It’s complicated.” Paul stowed the capsule back in his pack. “But if I can activate it roughly where my professor activated his, it should fix the problem.”

“Should fix?”

“Best I can offer.” Paul shrugged. “I might be totally wrong. My professor might not have had anything to do with it.”

The MP turned to the captain. “Well?”

“I still can’t take the risk. It’s my responsibility as captain. I can’t put my ship at risk for some theory.”

The captain and the MP exchanged long, silent stares.

“Wait!” said Paul. “I think I have something of an idea.” Vicki shot him a bemused glance. “What if we—” Paul moved close to Vicki. “What if we were to borrow a lifeboat and just row the half mile to shore?”

“More like three quarters of a mile,” said the captain in a hostile voice. “And it’s dangerous.”

“What do you think?” said Paul, turning to Vicki.

“I want to go home.”

“Fine,” said Paul. “Then let’s go for it.”

The captain gave a chuckle that sounded more like a snigger. “I don’t think so.” He gave a mirthless smile. “I’m not in the habit of letting kids make off with lifeboats for joyriding.”

“In that case,” said Paul, more for effect, “I’ll jump in and swim for shore.”

“Let the kids have a boat,” said the MP. “My responsibility.” He turned to Paul, thereby effectively cutting the captain off from issuing more objections. “But it must be twenty miles from Calshot to Southampton.”

“We can hitchhike,” said Paul. “And in any case, we have bikes.”

“Fine,” said the MP. “That’s settled.” He smiled gently. “I’d rather like to come with you, but … but sadly, at my time in life I only experience adventure vicariously.”

A half hour later, Paul and Vicki had loaded their bicycles and packs into a lifeboat and had climbed in after them. The lifeboat had a sealed emergency provisions locker that also contained, according to the crew, detailed maps of the coastline bordering the Solent—including the Isle of Wight and, most importantly, southern England. Paul hoped that if the worst had happened, then with a scale of distances and with Vicki’s knowledge of the geography they’d be able to locate the university’s Jubilee Sports Centre by dead reckoning.

As they rowed, the ferry grew smaller and finally became lost in the gloom. Paul felt cut off from the world. He was very glad for Vicki’s company.

Vicki glanced over her shoulder in the direction the boat moved. “I don’t like this,” she said at a whisper. “We should see houses, but all I see are trees. I’ve never been there, but I don’t think the spit was supposed to be heavily forested.”

Paul looked. “And big trees, too. Doesn’t look very English to me.”

They rowed without talking and Paul could only hear the splash of the oars and creak of the oarlocks. The closer they got to shore, the clearer the air became. When the mist had entirely lifted, they saw a sandy shore behind which was a forest of great trees. The trees were not tightly spaced, but they were large; their high branches merged to form a continuous canopy. The sun, bright but low in the sky, cast long shadows, and against the green brightness, the terrain beneath the canopy looked dark and creepy.

Then came a scraping sound as the boat slid onto the bank.

“Well, we’re here.” Paul pulled in his oar, then fetched the map from the locker.

Vicki pulled in her oar and hopped out of the boat. Paul followed.

Gazing at the great trees, Vicki said, “They’re oaks. I was taught that our forests looked like this—before people hacked most of them down.”

Paul laughed nervously. “It sounds almost as if you don’t believe this is twenty-first-century England.”

“I’m not really sure it is,” said Vicki softly.

“We have oak groves in Massachusetts,” said Paul dismissively. “They look sort of like these. No need to go back a hundred years.”

Vicki gazed into the forest. “A lot more than a hundred years.”

“Come on,” said Paul, reaching into the boat to lift out his bicycle. “This has got to be just some remnant of those forests.” He reached into the boat again for Vicki’s bike. “Geez! A lot more than a hundred years. No way!”

“Hey,” she said. “This time-travel idea was yours, not mine. Are you saying you were making it all up?”

“No,” he said weakly. “But … but I can’t say I really believed it. It was just a physics hypothesis. Theoretical.” He shot a glance at the great oaks. “It’s funny though, how you can believe something and not believe it at the same time.”

“There’s supposed to be a little village. Calshot.” Vicki looked off into the forest. “It can’t be very far ahead.”

“Yeah.” Paul studied the map. “Not far ahead at all. And if there isn’t a village there, then…”

“Let’s zero our bike odometers and take a compass reading.” Vicki reset hers and got back astride her bike. “A map, compass, and odometer navigation exercise. Just like you wanted.”

“Yeah, really.” Paul took the reading and slid the map into his shirt pocket. He pointed the way, mounted his bike, and then stopped.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, really.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” said Vicki. “You look almost as if you’re about to cry.”

“It’s just … it’s just that when I’m doing physics, I do it because it’s fun. I don’t think about who it might hurt or if I’m putting someone I care about in danger.” Paul squeezed the handbrakes. “It’s like I’m a kid—a bratty irresponsible kid.”

Vicki touched his arm. “I find your nature, well … yes, childlike—and sort of endearing.”

Paul, feeling himself flush, stood hard on the raised pedal. “Let’s go!”

Although the sun was lost to them, the light was sufficient and they made good time as their bikes, side by side, moved silently over the flat and firm ground between the trees.

A flash of movement caught Paul’s eye and he gripped tight his hand brakes. Vicki braked a few feet farther ahead.

Two children froze from their play and stood staring. Both were boys: barefoot, one about ten, the other seven or eight, with flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes. Each wore only a single garment that looked like a tee shirt—brown, loose fitting, and reaching almost to their knees.

Paul wheeled his bike forward to be even with Vicki’s. “Hi!” he called out.

“Frea Aelmihtig!” said the older kid, his eyes wide and fearful.

Paul rolled his bike a yard forward. “Come on. I’m friendly. I won’t eat you guys.”

The taller boy turned to the other and shouted, “Rinnath on waeg!” As one, they turned and ran. After a few seconds, they were lost from sight.

“Geez!” said Paul, looking the way they’d gone.

“Frea Aelmihtig. Frea Aelmihtig,” said Vicki, under her breath. “I know that.” After a pause she intoned, “Firum foldu, Frea Aelmihtig—the Earth for Men, God almighty.” She gasped and added, “Oh, my gosh!”

Paul turned to her. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you know any Old English?” she said in a soft, far-off voice.

“I knew an Old English Sheepdog once.” When she didn’t answer, Paul felt suddenly cold. “Are you saying they were speaking Old English? You mean like Chaucer or something?”

“I mean like Beowulf.”

“Beowulf! That’s a thousand years ago. We can’t have swapped back a millennium.” Paul tried unsuccessfully to laugh. “That’s a long, long time.”

“Time.” Vicki shook her head. “It seems to me that time is acting very mean.”

“Mean?” Paul managed a bark of a laugh. “The M in GMT.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Just babbling. Come on. Let’s see about this Calshot village.” He bore down on a pedal. “A thousand years. No way!”

It took under a minute for them to break into a clearing where there stood about a dozen small houses clustered in a semicircle. The structures of unpainted wood had thatched roofs and very low walls. Paul’s gaze, though, was riveted on a line of ten or fifteen men standing shoulder to shoulder facing them. Most carried spears and they all looked angry—and more than a little disquieted by the bicycles.

“Looks like we were expected,” Vicki whispered.

“Word gets around,” Paul whispered back. “I wouldn’t have thought that word of mouth could outrun bicycles.”

Vicki nodded at one of the doorways where the two boys they’d encountered looked out. “But it seems kids can outrun them.”

One of the men took a few steps forward and stared hard at Paul. “Ond p, hwceartp?”

Paul could tell he was being asked a question—but that’s all he could tell.

“Hwanon cymon git?” The man stared for a few seconds, as if waiting for an answer. Then he turned to those around him and whispered. All at once, the villagers surged forward with spears held for action.

Paul knew it was too late to escape; he was astraddle his bike and the bike was pointed the wrong way. But maybe he could get up enough speed to force his way through the line of men. And if he couldn’t, he still might be able to open up a path so Vicki could get free. He had just moved a foot to a pedal when he heard Vicki shout, “Hwaet!” He glanced at her and then at the men; the attackers had stopped in their tracks.

“Hwaet! WiGcr-Dena in gecr-dagum,” Vicki shouted, gesturing with the hand not holding the handlebars, “peod-cyninga, prym gefrunon.”

The men looked at her with puzzled expressions, and some of them lowered their spears.

Vicki leaned in toward Paul. “Let’s get out of here!” she whispered.

*

Taking advantage of the men’s confusion, Vicki and Paul turned their bikes around, mounted, and sped off. After about a five-minute ride, out of breath from the exertion and fear, they stopped to rest.

Paul, still on his bike, leaned against a tree. “What the heck did you say to them back there?”

“I haven’t a clue, really,” said Vicki, dismounting and breathing heavily. “It was the beginning of Beowulf.” She gave a self-effacing smile. “We learn that in school.”

“And why were they so angry?”

“The Anglo-Saxons weren’t fond of strangers.”

“Not fond is a nice way of putting it,” said Paul with a grunt of a laugh. “You learned that in school, I bet.”

Vicki nodded. “If someone comes into a village without welcome or without calling out, the villagers have a right to kill him.” She reprised her smile. “Or so I’ve been taught.”

“I don’t think I like it here,” said Paul. He was ready to believe that Dr. Richardson had done the incredible. Now he hoped he could make himself believe he could undo the incredible. “We’ve got to get to Southampton.”

“How close do you need to be?”

“To the nexus?” Paul thought for a few seconds. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s a surface-wave phenomenon so it has a one over R rather than an inverse square law, I think.”

“Is that an answer?”

There came a whap, whap, whap sound from above, and Paul hunted for its source. “Hey!” He pointed. “A helicopter. That is the most comforting sight I’ve seen in hours.”

“Probably from the Island.” Vicki looked thoughtfully up at it. “I wonder why it makes that sound—since the blades move smoothly.”

“Hard to explain if you don’t know physics.” Paul shifted his bike to a low gear. “I think we’d better get going. We might be able to reach Southampton before it gets really dark.”

With seeming reluctance, Vicki tore her gaze from the aircraft. “I think we should lie low until it does get really dark.”

“Why?”

“Myrkfaelen.”

“What?”

“Hard to explain if you don’t know Old English.”

“All right. All right. I’m sorry about the physics arrogance. Another occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I truly am sorry.”

Vicki gave a warm chuckle. “I think we’re both a little on edge. Well, anyway, myrkfaelen means fear of the dark.”

Paul gave a quizzical look.

“The Anglo-Saxons were afraid of the dark. If there’s a bright enough moon, bandits will travel at night, otherwise nobody does.” A howl, long and deep, reverberated through woods. “Um … except wolves.”

“Wolves?” Paul shivered. “Let’s not wait for night.”

“Yes.” Vicki looked nervously around. “Maybe that would be best. It’ll be dark soon enough anyway.”

Paul straddled his bike again and rummaged through his pack. “We should probably wear these now.” He pulled out a headband-mounted LED flashlight and slipped the elastic on so that the lamp sat in the middle of his forehead.

While Vicki found and slipped on her own LED unit, Paul pulled the map from his pocket. He examined it under the brilliant blue-white LEDs, then put it away and switched off the light. “Okay. Let’s go.” He pointed. “That way!”

They made slow time in the increasing darkness, with frequent stops to check the compass and odometer readings against the map. Despite the darkness, they rode with their lights off. They had no wish to attract bandits or wolves.

“It’s amazing how well one can see in the dark,” said Paul as he rode, “after the eyes become dark-adapted.” He stopped for a map check. “Except for reading maps.”

“What will happen when you throw the switch on your capsule?” said Vicki, stopping her bike and looking over Paul’s shoulder at the map.

“The island of Britain should swap back into the twenty-first century.”

“But we’re on the eleventh century version,” said Vicki. “What will happen to us?”

Paul put away the map and bit his lower lip. “I think that since we weren’t on it originally, we can’t be swapped back with it—conservation of mass. I think we’ll stay in the twenty-first century.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think.” Paul remounted his bike and started away.

Vicki hurried to catch up. “And if you’re right,” she said, pausing for breath, “where will we wind up?”

“Probably at Richardson’s nexus—where he threw the switch on his module.” A few seconds later Paul added, “And we probably won’t be harmed—for the same reason the planes probably didn’t crash—avoidance of excessive quantum changes.”

“Probably!”

“I’m sorry.” Paul threw her a glance. “It’s the best I can theorize at the moment.”

At their next compass and map stop, Vicki asked, “What if it doesn’t work?”

“We just go back to the Isle of Wight. I’m sure Richardson, in his England, will find a solution.” Paul cast a glance at the sky, what little he could see of it through the tree branches. “I’m sure of it.”

“Richardson’s England,” said Vicki, in a voice filled with yearning. “A modern England in a … an eleventh-century world?”

“Yes.” Paul explored the idea. “And in an eleventh-century Solar System—I think.” He lowered his eyes from the canopy—and froze. “Uh-oh!” Ahead, a band of sturdy men stood firm, like truncated oaks among the forest’s mighty trees. Most carried spears, the rest, swords. These were not scared villagers. Catching movements out of the corners of his eyes, Paul saw more men coming from left and right. There was no escape. And Paul had no illusions that Vicki reciting Beowulf would help.

Vicki seemed to understand that as well. “This is serious,” she whispered. “It’s a raiding party. Norwegian or Danish, I think.”

One of the men ventured forward and barked out some words. They sounded like a command. Then, as the men began to converge on them, Vicki threw her hand to her forehead and as her hand came away, a brilliant blue-white light shone out illuminating the man in front. He froze like a statue.

Paul, embarrassed by the slowness of his reaction, switched on his LED lamp as well. Then, swiveling his head from side to side, casting a beam over the raiders, he screamed loudly and gutturally. He bore heavily down on the pedals and felt his bicycle lurch forward. He could see Vicki leaning on her pedals as well. The men in front didn’t give way—but neither did they move to stop them.

Unimpeded, the two bicycles raced by the men. Only after Paul and Vicki had pedaled furiously for about five minutes did Paul dare to look behind. He signaled a halt. “Okay. We can rest now.”

From then on, they rode with their lights on.

A little after midnight, Paul signaled their final halt. He dismounted and eased his bicycle to the ground. “This is, as close as I can tell, Southampton University.” He gave a soft yet harsh laugh. “The grounds of the university, that is.”

Vicki swung off her bike, threw down her knapsack, and collapsed beside it. “I am really tired.”

“Yeah, me too.” Paul took off his pack. He knelt beside it and brought forth the capsule. Opening the control panel cover, he moved his hand to a red-colored toggle. “This is the switch.” Then he pulled back his hand.

“What’s the matter?” said Vicki. “Why didn’t you flip it? Don’t you think we’re close enough?” Paul turned off his LED lamp so he could look at Vicki without blinding her. Vicki turned off hers as well.

“I’ve been thinking.” Paul, feeling a surge of affection, gazed at his friend. “I really don’t know what might happen. It could be very dangerous. While I’m willing to risk my life, I’m not going to risk yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Only one of us is needed here.” Paul reached in his pocket and handed Vicki the map. “You should go back to the lifeboat and row back to Cowes—or at any rate, row as far as you can into the Solent. I’m sure some craft will pick you up.”

Vicki canted her head. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Our Southampton might materialize right on top of us. We could be killed.”

“Do you really think that could happen?”

“No,” said Paul. “But it might. I’ll stay here and wait as long as I can—until morning hopefully, maybe longer. Then I’ll throw the switch. Whatever happens, you’ll be safe. I want you to be safe.”

“Paul.” Vicki hesitated. “Paul, I’m not going to leave you here.”

“You’ve got to.”

“Not bloody likely!” With a quick, sinewy motion, Vicki darted her hand to the capsule and threw the switch.

The capsule emitted a whirring sound, the same sound Paul had heard over the phone when Richardson activated his device.

Then, suddenly, water and darkness. Paul, gurgling water, felt himself sink. He pawed upward but the weight of his clothing and shoes dragged him down. He felt one foot contact a complex of hard, rodlike structures—My bicycle! He let his legs fold under him, then sprang up with all his strength, expelling the last of his air with the exertion.

He pawed the water above, felt his body slide upward, and after a few agonizing seconds his head broke the surface. He coughed out water and took a frantic breath before sinking again. Rolling into a ball, he yanked off his shoes and again fought for the surface. His ears cleared and he heard splashes to his left as his head cleared the water.

“Vicki,” he gasped. “Is that you?” He blew out some more water. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” came a labored voice.

Through water-blurred eyes, Paul saw a glowing redness in the distance. Treading water, he shook his head and blinked a few times to clear his vision. The red glow resolved into a word: EXIT.

The swimming pool! Paul stroked toward the sign and heard Vicki following behind. Then, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of a starry night sifting in through the windows, he saw her overtake him. She climbed out of the pool at a metal ladder and Paul, following, became engulfed in the torrent of water spilling from her clothes.

“We did it!” shouted Paul when he’d emerged from the pool. He raised his hands in victory. “We’ve brought Britain back!”

“Gosh,” said Vicki. “I am so glad to be back in this building, chlorine smell and all.” She laughed, then impetuously hugged Paul. Turning then, she pointed to a towel hamper. “Come on. Let’s dry off. I’m starting to shiver.” She darted to the hamper, pulled out two towels, and tossed one to Paul. As Vicki toweled herself down, clothes and all, she absently gazed out the window, upward toward the sky—then gasped.

“What’s the matter?” Paul joined her near the window and followed her gaze. “What do … Geez! What’s that? It looks like a comet. My god, it’s almost as bright as the moon.” He furrowed his forehead in puzzlement. “I didn’t know of any comets coming. Certainly not a comet like this.” He looked at the diffuse fiery brightness with its ghostly arced tail. “This is amazing!”

“When beggars die, there are no comets seen,” Vicki whispered, her face showing fear. “The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.”

“What?”

“Halley’s Comet,” said Vicki, still at a whisper.

“No. Can’t be. Halley’s Comet isn’t due again for years. And Halley’s hasn’t been this bright since—”

“It was very bright just before the Battle of Hastings.” Vicki broke her gaze from the comet and looked wide eyed at Paul. “1066. It was taken as a portent for William the Conqueror.”

“Wait a minute. Are you…” Suddenly the truth and significance of Vicki’s words registered. The capsule hadn’t pulled modern Britain back from the age of the Anglo-Saxons, but had instead hurtled them into that very Britain—the twenty-first-century kingdom in an eleventh-century world. He staggered, leaning for support against the glass wall of the Sports Centre. Vicki had her world back, but his—everything he knew: Harvard, Boston, the United States, everything but Great Britain—gone. He was an orphan. Everyone who was important to him, everyone except Vicki, lived in another Universe.

Vicki touched his arm. “I’m sure your Dr. Richardson will know what to do.”

Paul was too upset to speak and he was angry: angry at the Universe, all of them; angry at himself; angry at Dr. Richardson; and even angry at William the Conqueror. When that bastard William sets foot on England, he’s going to be in for one nasty shock. Finally, Paul found his voice. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s go find Professor Richardson.” He stormed toward the exit leading to the changing rooms and showers.

“Paul. Stop,” Vicki called after him.

Paul, his eyes watery from the pool’s chlorine, spun around.

“The middle of the night might not be the best time for a person to drop in on someone,” said Vicki, “especially if that person is dripping wet and not wearing shoes.”

“You think?” he said with a forced smile as he walked to the pool edge. He looked down at the litter of bicycles and packs on the bottom. “I’ll get our stuff.” He dived in and as he splashed his way forward he understood that his outburst and wanting to see Richardson was so that he wouldn’t have to think about the loss of his family and friends back home—as well as his loss of back home itself. And he sorely needed to believe that Richardson could undo the damage he’d wrought.

In several trips, Paul retrieved their gear and bicycles. The pannier bags dripped lakes. Paul grabbed another towel, dried off again, then sat, resting his back against the towel hamper. “I’m wiped,” he said in a throaty whisper. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”

“You live off campus, don’t you?”

Paul threw a quick glance at his dripping bicycle and sighed. “About a fifteen minute bike ride away.”

“Well, I’m in Highfield Hall, virtually just down the street.” Vicki paused. “I don’t think you should bike home. It’s late. You’re wet. You’ll catch pneumonia. Why don’t you stay over at my place?”

Paul accepted the offer with heavy thanks, and the two left the humid pool with its heavy smell of chlorine.

As they walked their bicycles out of the Sports Centre, Paul glanced stealthily from side to side. He didn’t want to encounter anyone, especially anyone he knew. He felt guilty about his part in the catastrophe, and he couldn’t shake the notion that anyone he might meet would instantly know he was guilty by observing the soggy condition of his apparel.

“The campus seems too quiet,” said Vicki, softly as if reluctant to violate the silence. “Not a person in sight.” She shivered in her wet clothes. “I wonder if something has gone very wrong and there are no people left in England.”

Paul gave an uneasy laugh. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it? I’d have thought what’s already happened to be impossible also.”

They walked in silence. As they approached the Maison Francaise, lying between them and Highfield Hall, they jumped at the sound of cheering. It came from the windows of the French dorm. As Paul and Vicki looked up toward the source of the exuberance, they saw a window thrown open and a student wave out as if he were the Pope. “On Capte a nouveau la television Francaise!” he announced loudly to the campus.

Vicki gazed up at him with wide, startled eyes.

Paul lowered his gaze to Vicki. “What did he say?”

“He said French television is broadcasting again.” She found Paul’s eyes. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t…” The answer occurred to him and Paul gasped. “It must be that instead of contemporary England switching to join the modern world, the modern world switched to join England.” He jerked his head up toward the student in the window. “Are you sure?” Paul shouted.

The student looked away for a few seconds, then leaned out the window again. “Yes. We’re getting satellite channels from all over Europe now.”

“Thank you!” Paul raised a hand in a V for victory.

Vicki’s eyes showed a lack of comprehension.

“It looks like,” said Paul, glancing up at the comet, “when we switched to the modern England in the eleventh century, we pulled the rest of the world we transferred from with us—but naturally enough, not the rest of the Universe.” He smiled, thinking of the implications. “Since whatever happens here on Earth can’t affect them, we’ll see all the astronomical activities of a thousand years replayed: comets, meteor showers and impacts, supernovae—and we’ll be prepared to observe them.”

“Then everything is all right now,” said Vicki.

“Yes, except for time.” Paul laughed. “Who knows what to call today’s date? The Greenwich Observatory will probably not be pleased. A very nasty time for them.”